


Vor Entye

by Professor97



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Extended Mission To Mandalore, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor97/pseuds/Professor97
Summary: On the famed "extended mission to Mandalore," Duchess Satine Kryze and Jedi padawan Obi Wan Kenobi must rely on one another to ensure their mutual survival. In the process, they find that a burgeoning friendship—and perhaps more—can be forged between even the most unlikely of candidates.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Kudos: 15





	1. Your Ladyship

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thanks for reading! I've been using FanFiction.com for many years, but I've decided to try Ao3 at my sister's suggestion. I'm a Senior in college, studying English and literary studies, so I don't always have a lot of free time. For that reason, uploads may be somewhat inconsistent. I hope you enjoy and comments are appreciated!

Chapter One: '' _Your Ladyship_ "

By the time Qui Gon and Obi Wan arrived in Kalevala City, the sun was just a sliver of orange-red light on the horizon. The sun, as Obi Wan understood it, was called Mandalore, sharing its moniker with the system's most-infamous, eponymous planet. _Kalevala is a periphery planet, circling the sun alongside eight others…_ The Padawan could hear Master Nu's dry, academic voice now. He had known better than to waltz into the Jedi Archives, requesting information on the Mandalore system. He was practically _asking_ for the wizened librarian to deliver a long-winded lecture, but he needed information—and fast. The Council had dispatched he and Qui Gon on their mission with a sparse briefing and less than a rotation to prepare. He had spent an excruciatingly long afternoon holed up in the Archives, hurriedly absorbing as much information on the Mandalore system as he could. In the end, he had only incurred a headache and the ire of Master Nu—Mandalorian history was far more complex than Obi Wan had initially assumed.

The most notable bit was, of course, the Mandalorians' conflict with the Jedi. This was not Obi Wan's first encounter with this topic—even non-Jedi knew of the Order's legendary battles with the Mandalorians. _Do not let centuries-old prejudices cloud your judgment_ , Master Nu had droned, as though Obi Wan were still a Youngling, unable to think for himself. At eighteen years old and approaching knighthood, he was perfectly capable of moderating his own thoughts and feelings. And yet, as he gazed at sun as it died on the horizon, he wondered how many Jedi had lost their lives beneath its light.

"Keep your thoughts on the here and now, Obi Wan," Qui Gon chastened, no doubt sensing his apprentice's wandering mind. _Perhaps I'm not quite so good at moderating my thoughts after all_ , Obi Wan thought with a rueful grin.

"Yes, Master," he answered, "the here and now…" Presently, the waning light was bathing Kalevala City in a wash of red-orange glow, once-grand houses casting diffused, ever-growing shadows over empty cobblestone streets. Perhaps calling it a city was a misnomer; if anything, it more closely resembled the quaint, picturesque villages of Naboo, which Obi Wan had once seen depicted in holographic form in the Archives. Of course, there was a major difference—those villages had been intact. Kalevala, on the other hand, was nearly decimated in Death Watch—or _Kyr'tsad_ , as they were known in this region—bombings.

Not a single house along the main roadway was entirely undisturbed: at best, the windows were broken and the yards scorched; at worst, they were little more than heaps of rubble. The Force surrounding the neighborhood was heavy, scarred by the incommunicable pain and fear of its former inhabitants. Obi Wan had learned in his rudimentary sweep of the Archives that most of the Kalevalans were either displaced or dead, with only a few remaining.

Those few were to be found in the ancestral home of the Kryze clan, which rose resolutely into the twilight, as though its very existence served to defy the destruction around it. The shattered lapis windows were dark, of course, in order to lend the appearance of desertion. Obi Wan could sense the beings within, though, a furtive swirl of trepidation and dread. Mandalorian culture was proud, and the fearful emotions inside were a testament to just how devastating the bombings had been. Obi Wan glanced at Qui Gon, trying to gauge the older man's response, but he continued towards the manor stoically, seemingly untouched by the pain around him. Obi Wan, on the other hand, felt a surge of righteous compassion. He resolved to treat the people inside with the utmost kindness and gentleness.

The master and apprentice trekked on, until they were swallowed up in the shadow of the manor house. It was nearly dark now, and the sky was that hazy, plum color which heralds the end of the twilight. Obi Wan noted that the Archives had indeed been correct: Kalevala lacked a moon. No stars shone tonight, either, as though they knew their glittering presence would be inappropriate in the somber, broken scene. In the darkness, Obi Wan could make out the soft, worn curves of sandstone, which comprised all of the buildings in the neighborhood. Chunks of it lay strewn across the ground, and as Obi Wan stepped, he could hear the cracking of lapis shards beneath his feet.

"Master Jedi!" A voice rang out through the darkness, from the direction of the great, ornate durasteel door, which was opened a crack. The voice belonged to a stooped, thin, elderly man, with the same pale golden hair characteristic of the New Mandalorian faction.

"Baron," Qui Gon returned, approaching the door. He and Obi Wan stepped inside and were instantly met with the dry, cold smell stone. Hushed, muffled voices echoed from the end of a long hallway, and the fearful energy pervading the Force grew more potent.

The Baron admitted the Jedi quickly, before hurriedly closing the door and bolting it shut. "Thank you for coming, truly," the elder man began, "I would not have contacted you if our situation had not been dire."

Obi Wan was taken aback by this admission. The duchess herself had not contacted the Jedi? Why had her court taken it upon themselves to secure protection for her? In the mission briefing, the master and apprentice had been informed that the duchess' father, Duke Adonai Kryze, had been killed in the same bombing that destroyed much of the neighborhood, only three rotations prior. It was clear that as the current leader of the New Mandalorians, Duchess Satine would soon become the target of greater intrigue. But she had not seen fit to secure her own protection?

"The Jedi are always ready to come to the aide of innocent life forms," Qui Gon answered, motioning for the nobleman to lead the way. They made their way down the hallway, before entering what was presumably the former great hall. The throne occupied by late Adonai Kryze just days prior sat empty and coated with dust from the recent bombing, an oddly poetic image. The walls were lined with tapestries of rich, indigo velvet, interspersed with portraits of the royal family, rendered in the odd, angular art style of the Mandalorians. They seemed fearsome by the light of flame.

The great hall housed what was left of the Kalevalan court, a half dozen nobles huddled together by the dim light of small fire, which barely staved off the chill of the night air. Smoke curled upward, and presently, Obi Wan realized that a significant portion of the roof was blown off, revealing the starless sky above. From beside the fire, a willowy young lady sprang to her feet. Immediately, Obi Wan was struck by the pure, pale gold color of her hair, which glimmered in the petering light of the fire. "Uncle!" she exclaimed sharply, "Who are these men?"

"Duchess," the Baron answered with low bow at the waist, "these gentlemen are _Jetiise_. They have been sent by the _Jetii_ Council to protect your ladyship."

Her ladyship! This slip of girl was Duchess Satine? She seemed to be close to Obi Wan's own age, if not slightly younger. Her wide blue eyes and narrow frame, coupled with the golden waves which dusted her shoulders, gave her the impression of an incorporeal being—like a diathim. She was the political savior who was to negotiate peace between the True Mandalorians and the Death Watch… Who was to lead her own faction, which had existed for nearly a millennium?

Obi Wan's surprise was only matched by the duchess' own. The Force around her lit of first with shock, then quickly turned to ire. "I asked for no such protection," she insisted hotly.

"Your ladyship," the Baron began, but she silenced him with one deft gesture.

"And _Jetiise_ , no less!" The duchess continued, infuriated, "What possessed you to grovel before our hereditary enemies?" Obi Wan could not help but bristle at this sentiment. He glanced at Qui Gon, but the Jedi Master remained serene and unperturbed.

"Satine, _ad'ika_ ," an elderly woman began, but quickly corrected herself, "Your Ladyship, I mean." Obi Wan was again reminded of the fact that the duchess had only been their leader for three rotations. Doubtless, it was a difficult adjustment, especially for her close relations.

"Your Ladyship," the elderly woman continued, "your safety is our only concern. Lay aside old prejudices. These men are here to protect you, out of their own kindness and good will!"

Now, Qui Gon stepped forward, bowing, motioning for his apprentice to follow suit, "Duchess, I can assure you that old grudges have no bearing on our mission. My padawan and I are at your service."

The duchess glared at him with imperious, crystalline eyes. "I do not recall asking for your input, _Master Jedi_."

At this, Obi Wan could no longer contain his frustration. "What gives you the right to speak to us in such a manner?" He demanded, "We have given you no cause to treat us with such disdain!" After a second, despite his better judgment, he added " _Your Ladyship_ " in the same acrid, sarcastic tone that she had used to utter his master's title moments ago.

"Padawan," Qui Gon barked—sharp, warning, final. He bowed his head, instantly ashamed of his words.

"Apologies, Duchess," Obi Wan muttered, color rising in his cheeks, resenting the look of satisfaction that had arisen in the girl's pretty face.

The duchess resumed her seat beside the fire, with an air of undeniable grace. "You must leave us," she told Qui Gon in a gentler tone, as though he had reprimanded her as well as his padawan, "return to Coruscant. You are not welcome here."

"Sleep on it, _ad'ika_ ," the elderly woman piped up, gently. Obi Wan noticed that the duchess and this lady possessed the same high cheekbones and long, thin nose. "Do not make such a rash decision tonight. Let cooler heads prevail tomorrow."

The young duchess sighed, thought for a moment, then answered measuredly, "Very well. We are adjourned." She stood again, more imperiously than before, and exited the room with a rush of emerald toned Belsavian silk and an upturned chin. As Obi Wan watched her leave, he was again reminded of her heritage. _She certainly carries herself like royalty_ , he thought to himself, _and behaves with the hauteur to match_. He glanced again at Qui Gon, and for the briefest second, he thought he saw an amused smile pass his master's face. Or was it just the flickering firelight?

**_Mando'a_ words** **:**

_ad'ika_ -sweetie, darling, child

_Jetii_ -Jedi

_Jetiise_ -plural form of Jedi

_Kyr'tsad_ -Death Watch; literally "Death Society"

Source: Wookieepedia


	2. I'll Go, Master!

Chapter Two: _"I'll Go, Master!"_

The duchess lay awake in the colossal, austere state chamber, which had been occupied by her father only three rotations prior. Anxiety, the sort which turns one's blood to acid and set one's mind alight with racing thoughts, had been Satine's perpetual state since the bombing which took her father's life. The event had heralded the end of her youth as she knew it: scorched landscapes could become lush again with time, houses could be rebuilt, returned to their former glory, but Adonai Kryze could never be brought back from the dead. His soul was now inextricable joined with the _Manda_ , the over spirit into which all true Mandalorian merged upon death. On _Manda'yaim_ , Satine mused darkly, their adversaries were almost certainly insisting otherwise, asserting that her father was _dar'manda_ , rejoicing in the idea of his soul being reduced to dust, blowing endlessly across the dunes of Sundari.

As Satine had watched the burial shroud being lowered over her father's corpse, a great, awful sense of duty had settled like a heavy mantle on her thin shoulders. The young noblewomen knew that the day would come when she was to lead the New Mandalorians—after all, her father had seen fit to send her to Coruscant to learn diplomacy for that very reason. As the eldest daughter of Adonai Kryze and the rightful heir of both her clan and political faction, it was imperative that she comprehend—and gain mastery of—the delicate art of diplomacy. She had attended school alongside other budding politicians, hailing from worlds spanning the Core to the Outer Rim. Of course, most of these students knew that their political careers were in the distant, hazy future, and behaved accordingly. Satine felt some distinction in this regard: she knew that her day would likely arrive sooner than most, therefore fostering a maturity beyond her seventeen years.

She had not expected her day to arrive quite so soon, though. In theory, she was prepared, having spent her entire life learning and preparing for her role as the future _Manda'lor_. Yet, in practice, she was left floundering. How was she to convince her people that she possessed the competency to lead, despite her youth and inexperience? How was she to convince _herself_? Lives, New Mandalorian and otherwise, depended upon it.

Satine rolled to her side, listening to the soft swishing of her Belsavian silk skirt against the fine, snow-colored sheets on the great state bed. She had taken to sleeping in her clothing, a packed bag lying beside her, as she needed to be ready to evacuate at a moment's notice in the event of another _Kyr'tsad_ bombing. And with the unexpected, distasteful arrival of these _Jetiise_ , she did not want to risk being happened upon in her sleeping garments.

She conjured the two in her mind's eye, and with a soft snort of displeasure, realized you had not even learned their names. The elder of the pair was likely in his middle years, with long flaxen hair and a beard touched with gray, sporting the same sand-colored robes as his apprentice. Satine regretted reprimanding him for speaking out of turn: despite his detestable occupation, he had a kind look in his eyes. If he were not a _Jetii_ , Satine might have perceived that he looked trustworthy. With a pang, she realized that something in his demeanor was reminiscent of her late father.

The younger _Jetii_ , however… insolent creature! He had only spent mere minutes in her presence before insulting her—even the most barbaric _Kyr'tsad_ warrior would have spoken to her with the respect owed to her clan. The way he had sarcastically tacked " _Your Ladyship_ " onto the end of his tirade was unbefitting a _Jetii_ knight, even in Satine's low opinion of the mystical order. She recalled, however, that the smug boy was not a knight at all: rather, he sported the singular plait indicative of an apprentice. This further stoked the flames of her temper—a mere _student_ had seen fit to mock her!

With his self-assured demeanor, high cheek bones, and clear, cyan eyes, a lesser woman might have found him to be handsome. _Well_ , Satine thought, turning to stare upwards at the ceiling once more, _perhaps he is handsome, in addition to being an impertinent lout. One may be both things simultaneously_. For what seemed to be the hundredth time that night, Satine longed for the company of her younger sister. Bo-Katan would have known just how to soothe her sister's slightly wounded pride, likely by mocking the arrogant boy, imitating his cocksure gait and posh Coruscanti accent. Satine's father had always said that his daughters inherited their quick, sometimes biting wit from their late mother, who had died birthing their younger brother, Korbyn.

Upon arriving from Coruscant, Satine's first agonizing decision as leader had been to order her two younger siblings and their entourage aboard a transport of _Mando'ad_ refugees, heading for the safety and relative security of Carlac. The Ming Po government had agreed to accept a small number of displaced persons, largely thanks to negotiations facilitated by her father shortly before his death. He, however, had not sought to include two of his children among the refugees—that had been entirely her own doing.

Bo had been enraged when Satine told her, calling her everything from a despotic tyrant to a clan traitor to a _di'kut_. Satine was unmoved by this onslaught of unflattering epithets. Resolute in her position, she had tried to convey to her sister that it was for their own safety. The _Kyr'tsad_ had issued a death warrant for all members of clan Kryze—even the two youngest members, fifteen and ten, respectively. Her grandmother, the dowager Lady Anya Kryze, had readily agreed with her granddaughter's decision to temporary displace her two other grandchildren.

Satine had another reason for sending Bo and Korbyn to Carlac, however, which she had not shared with her younger sister: in short, she exiled Bo to protect her from _herself_. When Satine had left for Coruscant to begin studying diplomacy three years prior, Bo possessed a burgeoning interest in the warrior culture of past centuries, hoarding ancient texts in her chambers. When the young duchess return to Kalevala, she found that this fascination had quickly consumed her sister, as vormur flowers were known to overtake fields of quench-gourds in the countryside. Bo had rejected the traditional style of dress for clan Kryze, swapping richly embroidered silks for a suit of beskar armor. Gone were elegant locks, woven with aruma-lillies—Bo had chopped her titian hair into a coarse bob.

More terrifying than a mere change in fashion, however, was the girl's shift in ideology: she had begun to espouse increasingly archaic positions on violence and bloodshed, sounding more like a _Kyr'tsad_ warrior than a daughter of clan Kryze. Satine knew that her sister's viewpoints would only grow more extreme if she remained near the conflict, and thus, she was left with no choice but to exile her. She could only hope that, with time to reflect upon the bloodlust infecting their world, Bo would recognize the flaws in the brutal philosophies of old. Satine was afraid to consider the alternative.

A sickeningly familiar sound interposed Satine's anxious meditations—the deep, hollow boom of an explosion, followed by the crackling of subsequent flames. She leaped out of bed, pack hanging from her shoulder, muscles seized with the involuntary tautness of adrenaline and fear. In the dreadful, anticipatory silence, she was suddenly aware of a soft creak, and the door to her chamber slid open. "Quickly, Duchess," a voice called out, and she recognized the tones of the elder _Jetii_ , who had elected to stand guard outside of her chamber for the night, "come with me."

She obeyed, following the man out of the state chamber and down the wide, carpeted corridor. Satine coughed, the smothering odor of smoke constricting her chest as she peered ahead, distraught: fire had consumed what remained of the great hall. Before she could react, however, another bomb shook the very foundation of the house, and the _Jetii_ master pulled her to the floor, covering her with his own frame. When they rose again, fire crept along the tapestried walls of the corridor, staining the entire scene with incandescent copper light. Her protector now broke into a run, dragging her behind him, her feet catching in her long, silken skirts. He wheeled around a corner, where the younger _Jetii_ waited tensely, silhouetted against a great lapis window, mined from Draboon centuries prior. It was one of the precious few in the house that remained intact.

"Ready, master?" the young man asked, a glint of excitement in his deep-set eyes, despite the dire surroundings. After a nod of affirmation, with not so much as a glance in Satine's direction, both men turned to face the window. She watched in wonder as the sinews of their arms leaped to life, as though power coursed through their veins and escaped from their fingertips, which were extended towards the panels of beveled lapis. The deeply hued crystal began to tremble, then quake, as though another bomb had just detonated. The men steadied their effort, closing their eyes. Fractures began to spread in patterns reminiscent of delicate frost, before a violent rush of shattering crystal sent a jolt of shock through Satine's weary, taxed body. She was met with yawning blackness where the window had been, cool night air rushing against her scorched cheeks. _So this_ , she thought to herself, _is the legendary Force_. Terrifying, really. The two _Jetiise_ had not so much as laid a finger on the thick, centuries-old lapis, and yet, it lay in shards at her feet.

The _Jetii_ master turned to regard her, his voice urgent. "Go with my apprentice," he insisted, motioning to the younger man, who had already climbed onto the window seat and was now poised on the edge of the blackness, "he will bring you to safety. I'll find the others."

The apprentice extended a steady, calloused hand to her, through which awful power had flowed mere moments prior. Satine fixed him with a scrutinizing look, recalling the insolent manner in which he had spoken to her upon the _Jetiise_ arrival. "I would rather not be left under the protection of a—" she began, but the master had already begun to sprint towards the blazing great hall.

"A what, my lady?" the younger _Jetii_ asked wryly, the flickering light exposing a half-smile on his infuriatingly handsome features.

"Never mind," Satine said decorously, smoothing her skirts, refusing to acknowledge his flippant demeanor. She delicately placed her hand in his, with all the dignity of her station, before stepping up onto the window seat, lapis shards cracking beneath her feet. Wind from the gaping window whipped her skirts against her legs as she stared into the darkness, scanning in vain for the ground.

"It's not too far below," the _Jetii_ spoke up, as though he had read her thoughts. Perhaps he had. "Hold onto me."

She resented taking orders from him, but she knew better than to protest. Gripping his hand with a renewed tightness, she held her breath as they leaped into the darkness. They landed on their feet, and an urgent, aching pain snaked up her calves and into her knees upon impact. She stumbled, but the _Jetii_ held tight, pulling her forward as the sound of another aircraft reverberated through the skies above. "Come on," he urged, breaking into a sprint across the courtyard, dragging her headlong into the night.

After a moment, her booted foot caught on a thick durasteel edge, protruding from the ground. She stumbled, knees meeting cobblestones and tearing her skirt. She barely heeded the pain that washed over her lower half, though, as she flooded instead with wild relief. "The bunker!" she cried, over the roar of bombs detonating overhead, "It's here!"

The _Jetii_ set to work immediately, forcing the heavy durasteel hatch open with his bare hands. _Aided by the Force, no doubt_ , Satine surmised. The subterranean space was dark and cool, and it filled her nose with the pleasing scent of earth as her protector slammed the door over their heads. Now plunged into utter darkness, the _Jetii_ fell to the ground beside her, panting.

"Does your master know where to find us?" Satine whispered, her voice cracking from smoke inhalation.

Although she could not see him, she perceived that the apprentice nodded his head. "Master Qui Gon… is aware… of the bunker," he responded, between gasping breaths. _Qui Gon_ , she thought to herself, _that is the elder man's name_. Before she could ask the apprentice for his own moniker, however, the hatch was flung open, and Satine's court began to enter the dank shelter. Relief swept over her like a torrential downpour as took they huddled beside her, with Master Qui Gon bringing up the rear. He was about to pull the hatch shut when—

"Wait!" Satine cried, leaping up, nearly striking her head against the bunker's low ceiling, "Wait! My grandmother!"

"My lady," Qui Gon began, remorse evident in his voice, "your palace is little more than rubble. If she remained, she is most certainly—"

"I'll go, master," the younger _Jetii_ exclaimed, springing to his feet. With a powerful Force push, he blew the hatch door open and bounded out into the darkness, before his master could object. Satine could sense the older man's disapproval, as she and her court waited in tense, fearful silence. Satine appealed to her ancestors, squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip until it bled, pleading for Lady Anya's survival. The muffled sound of bombs exploding on the surface permeated the claustrophobic space, and chunks of sod rained down on their heads with every detonation. Satine had nearly lost hope when the grating sound of the hatch opening caused her stomach to drop in agony.

The _Jetii_ appeared, firelight creating a halo around him, holding the frail form of her grandmother in his arms. "She's alive," he called triumphantly, smile evident in his voice. Dizzy, nearing hysterics, overwhelmed with relief, Satine was vaguely aware of the hatch door closing before she fainted onto the cool, dirt floor.

**Mando'a Words:**

_dar'manda_ -a state of being "not Mandalorian"; not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and soul

 _di'kut_ -idiot, moron, fool

 _Jetii_ -Jedi

 _Jetiise_ -plural form of Jedi

 _Kyr'tsad_ -Death Watch; literally "Death Society"

 _Mand'alor_ -"sole ruler," leader of the Mandalorians

 _Manda'yaim_ -the planet Mandalore

 _Mando'ad_ -Mandalorian, literally "son/daughter of Mandalore"

Source: Wookieepedia


	3. I Accept a Debt

Chapter Three: " _I Accept a Debt_ "

Aboard the small Kalevalen transport, Obi Wan swiveled in absent-minded spirals on the co-pilot's chair, trying to focus his mind anywhere but the great ribbons of white-blue light that heralded the jump to hyperspace. He looked down at the scuffed toes of his Sullust leather boots, but found that his stomach only sank further, so he fixed his gaze again on the viewport.

"You really need to work on your hatred of flying, Obi Wan" Qui Gon said gravely, glancing at his padawan from the captain's chair.

"I don't know about hatred, Master," Obi Wan lied, putting his hands behind his neck and propping his feet on the dash to give an appearance of confidence, "Try mild distaste."

"It's a long way to Taris, my young apprentice," Qui Gon said, fixing him with a sidelong glance.

"Taris, Master?" Obi Wan asked, "I thought you said we were returning to Coruscant, as per the Council's recommendation."

"We are," Qui Gon responded, tapping the fuel gauge with a long finger, "But we will need to refuel. These Kalevalen-class transports aren't intended for long-distance travel—they were designed to ferry passengers between the various planets within the Mandalore system."

"It might be advantageous," Obi Wan surmised, "to exchange this ship for another on Taris. If we are being tracked by the duchess's enemies, this ship is not exactly subtle." In Kalevala's battered remaining hangar, Obi Wan had observed that the sleek, opulent craft glimmered with a wash of pearly varnish, emblazoned with depictions of aruma-lilies, the emblem of the Kryze family. For all its lack of subtly, the craft was practically an invitation for pursuit.

Qui Gon nodded approvingly. "Indeed, padawan."

Obi Wan slid a datapad from his satchel. "In light of this unanticipated stop," he continued, "perhaps I should learn a bit about Taris. I must admit I am unfamiliar with the system."

"It's been many years since I've been there, myself," the older man commented, "During my own training, I accompanied my master to initiate negotiations between the Tarisian government and a group of ecoterrorists."

"Ecoterrorists?"

Qui Gon nodded, shifting the craft into autopilot so he could give Obi Wan his whole attention. He spun his chair so he was facing his apprentice, who jumped to attention and removed his feet from the dash. "Taris is an ecumenopolis now, but a millennium ago, the surface was comprised of marshland and forests. The ruling class developed the cities so quickly that their way of life became unsustainable, leading to widespread pollution and a dense, impoverished population. As you can imagine, such conditions have led to many Tarisians to resort to crime and violence. Master Dooku and I were tasked with helping the royal family contend with a band of ecoterrorists, who demanded that the government cease activities that were depleting the natural resources and putting a strain on the lower classes."

Obi Wan was always eager to hear about his mentor's own days as a learner. "Did it work?"

"No. The terrorists were driven into hiding, and the planet has only gotten worse. You'll be able to see the yellow smog before we even enter the atmosphere. It seems that the elites, even in their skyscrapers, can't avoid that unfortunate side effect of their activities," Qui Gon finished with a shrug.

"I fear that will be Coruscant's fate before the end of my lifetime," Obi Wan remarked.

Qui Gon nodded in agreement. "Taris is a place nearly devoid of hope," he added grimly.

Obi Wan shifted nervously. "Are you sure it will be safe for the duchess?"

His master chuckled, no doubt envisioning their posh new companion among the squalor of their destination. "Under ordinary conditions, I would think not," he answered thoughtfully, "However, I do not believe merely changing ships will pose any risk. If anything, the locals are in danger of a tongue lashing from our young friend."

Obi Wan knew the allusion to his rough introduction with the duchess was intended to lighten his mood, but he could not help but wonder how the Council would respond to their unexpected pitstop.

"Trust in the Force, not the Council, Obi Wan," Qui Gon said quietly, sensing his apprentice's thoughts.

 _But surely the Council may act as an extension of the Force, Master_ , Obi Wan wanted to counter, but he bit his lip. He knew better than to revisit a tense conversation. Compliance with the Council's orders had been a point of contention between the master and padawan in recent months—Qui Gon had always been a nonconformist, and while Obi Wan had initially admired his autonomy, his view of this trait was beginning to sour as his training progressed. He had observed instances where Qui Gon's perception of the Force's will was perhaps not entirely accurate, leading to unintended consequences—consequences that could have been avoided had the man simply abided by the Council's instructions. As a result of these instances, Obi Wan was left adrift, unsure, seeing his master for the first time as a being capable of making mistakes rather than an immutable pillar of wisdom. Since the mission to Ordellus Prime, the gulf between the pair's conflicting natures had not been entirely rectified…

Obi Wan stood. It was a topic worth revisiting, but not today. He needed to center his mind on the challenge ahead. Excusing himself on the premise of needing to further study Taris, he strode through the polished durasteel dividers towards the cargohold, datapad in hand. He knew he was trading one tense environment for another: the duchess had been fairly furious when she had awoken aboard the transport, en route for Coruscant. She had made her case fairly convincingly at first, insisting that her people and enemies alike would perceive her escape as surrender. When Qui Gon was unmoved by her objections, she became angry, accusing the Jedi of what amounted to little more than kidnapping, before storming off into the cargohold. Obi Wan had started to pursue her, intent on defending his master's honor, but Qui Gon stopped him with one deftly extended arm. "Let it go, Obi Wan," he had said gently, "Imagine how she must feel right now. Take this as an opportunity to extend compassion."

 _Extend compassion_ , Obi Wan echoed as he stepped into the cargohold. He tested the Force around him, and found that it ebbed like the tide lapped at the shore after a storm—although the waters had returned to a state of calm, they still reverberated with latent intensity. The origin point of this swirl of emotion was the duchess herself. She sat atop a cargo case, feet tucked beneath her, gazing out the small viewport. Her chin dipped low, sending golden waves cascading to her delicate collarbone, and her hand rested on the cold transparasteel that separated her from the inky emptiness of space, as though she could extend her fingers and draw her home world back to her. Her demeanor recalled the pensive, romantic paintings he had seen while serving the royal house of Alderaan in a mission past. He suddenly found that it would be far easier to conjure compassion for this lonely girl than the haughty noblewoman who had accused his master of kidnapping an hour prior.

"Pardon me, milady," he began in a genial tone, "I don't mean to intrude."

She looked up, startled for a moment, before straightening her spine and smoothing her silken, jewel-toned skirt over her knees. "Of course not," she answered mildly, and Obi Wan could not decide if she was attempting to make up for tempestuous outburst earlier or merely defaulting to the automatic, collected demeanor of a trained politician. Either way, he nodded in acknowledgement and took a seat on the cargo case furthest away from her, as she returned her gaze to the transparasteel viewport.

He sat cross-legged, as he might while listening to an informal lecture from a Jedi Master in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, pulling his datapad from his satchel. After a moment of clicking through the controls, a florescent blue holoprojection of Taris sprung to life, the ball of energy slowly rotating above his 'pad. He noticed that the apparition caught the eyes of Duchess Satine, who flicked her gaze away when his eyes caught hers. Something about the meeting of their gazes made his stomach lurch, and he was not entirely sure why.

"We're making a stop on Taris," he informed her, suddenly feeling as though he needed to speak, "I thought that I should learn more about—"

"How kind of you and your master to consult me before changing our course," she said sarcastically, her delicate brows gathered in displeasure.

He was about to launch a biting retort, but he stopped himself. _Extend compassion_. The young woman's entire life as she had known it had been dissolved in a matter of days, and she had no recourse to set it right. Obi Wan tried to imagine what it might be like if he were suddenly cut adrift from the Jedi Order and thrust into the company of strangers. It was not a pleasant scenario to envision.

"You're right, milady," he answered, and the duchess's surprise was evident in the Force around him, "It was inconsiderate of us. My master observed that we are running low on fuel, so he felt it was necessary to make a stop on Taris."

He could tell that she was still waiting to see if he was being sarcastic, waiting for his words to change from earnest to mocking. "Even though Taris has been plagued by ecological disasters, unrest, and general lawlessness for many years?" She challenged.

Obi Wan wondered how she knew so much about the planet, but chose not to ask. "I expressed the same concerns to my master," he admitted with a shrug.

The young Mandalorian eyed him critically for a moment, but she must have decided that he was not mocking her after all. "Well," she commented quietly, "At least we are of the same mind on that matter."

"Indeed," he answered, finding that he liked hearing her associate the two of them. Surely, he reasoned, this was because it was evidence of his Jedi compassion and nothing more.

"While you are here, Master Jedi," she said unexpectedly, "I have something I wish to tell you." Obi Wan was surprised and pleased to hear his official title from her lips, rather than an epithet that drew attention to the fact that he was yet to achieve knighthood, as she had previously used to refer to him. Was he observing a hint of goodwill beneath the Mandalorian's cold exterior? He rose from his seated position and crossed the scant space of the cargo hold until he was before her. He knelt in front of the cargo case on which she sat, as though it were a throne, waiting for her to speak.

"I wanted to thank you for rescuing my grandmother back on Kalevala," she told him, inclining her head, "You were only tasked with protecting me, and yet you still chose to save her. I am grateful."

"It was what any Jedi would have done, milady," he answered modestly, assuring himself that the flicker of warmth in his chest was the product of Jedi altruism and not the pair of crystalline blue eyes fixed admiringly on him.

"Perhaps we shall have to disagree on that point," the young lady responded, and he felt his heart begin to sink, but then the corners of her rosy lips turned upwards. _Oh_ , he thought, surprised at the undue feeling of relief that arose within him, _she's jesting_.

"I was glad to do it," he said warmly, giving her a soft smile of his own.

"As we say back home, _vor entye_ ," the duchess continued, "It is not merely an expression of thanks; it means 'I accept a debt.' I am indebted to you, for the rescue of my grandmother."

"Oh, no," he insisted, "There is no debt to be repaid, milady."

She shook her head. "We have another saying on my world," she persisted, " _Mando'ad draar digu_ : 'a Mandalorian never forgets.' I will not forget my debt to you… uh…"

"What?" Obi Wan asked.

A rosy heat arose in the girl's pearly complexion. "I must confess that I know your master's name," she admitted, "But in the chaos of the events of last night, I did not learn yours."

"It's Obi Wan Kenobi," he answered, gallantly taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, "Jedi Padawan Obi Wan Kenobi, at your service."

**Mando'a words:**

_Mando'ad draar digu_ -"a Mandalorian never forgets"

 _Vor entye_ -thank you; literally, "I accept a debt"


	4. Tarisian eel soup

Freezing, foul-smelling rain fell in torrents, which had soaked through Satine’s coarse head covering, the moisture gathering her pale gold hair in damp curls. She was grateful, as she watched florescent purple lights dance across puddles turning to half-frozen slush outside the small café, that they had found some semblance of shelter. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and it was only a matter of time before the rain turned to snow. The café—if she could refer to it in such generous terms—was comprised of four flimsy walls, a tarpaulin that mercifully held off most of the rain, and of course, an overabundance of neon lights. The florescent glow, Satine was quickly discovering, was omnipresent in the section of Taris known as Lower City. The pair of _Jetiise_ had not intended to leave the dingy hangar in which they had docked, but by the time their craft had sputtered into the final available stall, almost entirely without fuel, evening had arrived. The hangar attendants had informed them that they were closing for the night, and the trio could not remain with their craft. So, donning plain, drab clothing in order to avoid drawing attention, she and her _Jetii_ protectors were left with an unexpected night to fill in one of Taris’s seedier districts. 

It was not unlike the impoverished levels of Coruscant that her classmates at the Republic Academy of Government had avoided, Satine mused. She likely would have avoided them as well, if not for the influence of Director Rovert. Following her final examinations one term, he had insisted upon showing her the destitution that was eclipsed by the glimmering skyscrapers of the posh Senate District. Satine was initially reluctant, but she did not want to disappoint her mentor. She was appalled by the scenes of misery and desperation that met her. At the end of their tour, as the teacher and student were preparing to ascend to the surface again, she realized that she would be returning to RAG empty-handed: she had given away all of her credits. As she glanced into her empty satchel, Director Rovert smiled approvingly. It was then that she realized his aim—it was one thing to _read_ about the suffering of others in dull holotexts, but it was quite another to _witness_ it first-hand. “That is what will set you apart, Satine,” Director Rovert had told her as they were enveloped in the red-gold glow of sunset on the surface, “from the previous leaders of your world—compassion.”

Satine roused herself from her memories. The dull ache of loneliness that had settled over her upon leaving _Manda’yaim_ grew sharp as she recalled her mentor’s wise counsel. Her gaze fell to the young _Jetii_ —Obi Wan, as she had discovered—seated across from her, and she felt small flicker of jealousy. _He_ was accompanied by his teacher, while she was cut suddenly adrift without the guidance of her own mentor. The last time she had seen him was on the loading dock at RAG. He had given her a file of texts for her datapad to continue her studies, as well as a promise that he was only a transmission away. She watched as he, and a handful of other instructors who had gathered to see her off, grew smaller and smaller in the viewport, before disappearing completely. Her transport hurtled off into starry nothingness, thrusting her headlong into a future that had arrived before she was ready.

She surveyed the café from their corner table, searching in vain for anything to distract her from her heartache. Freezing rain whipped against the tarpaulins, spraying her with icy droplets through the spaces between the panels which had clearly been hastily lashed together. Inside, the scant space teemed with life, humans and Twi’leks and Ithorians alike pressed against each other in a never-ending clamor for the cheap sustenance that the establishment offered. As far as Satine could tell, it was some sort of soup-like dish, served in discolored cast-plast bowls without utensils—diners merely lifted the vessels to their lips and drank. _Ironic_ , Satine thought, _Father sent me to Coruscant to learn to behave as a noblewoman, but now I’ll be drinking from a bowl like a Kyr’tsad ruffian. Or at the very least, like Bo._

As if on cue, the elder _Jetii_ , Qui Gon, returned bearing a tray of steaming liquids. “This soup is the chef’s special, I’m told,” he announced, sliding a bowls in front of Satine and his apprentice.

“The chef’s special,” Obi Wan observed wryly, “appears to be the contents of a puddle in the back alley.”

Satine braced herself as she peered into the steaming broth. The scent was pleasant enough, and for a moment, she began to entertain the hunger that had been gnawing at her stomach. She daintily swirled her bowl, attempting to agitate what seemed to be large, textured noodles. To her horror, one of the “noodles” seized and writhed, splashing droplets of broth onto the table. They were not noodles; _they were eels_.

“Oh!” she cried, involuntarily pushing the bowl away from her.

“What seems to be the problem, milady?” Obi Wan asked, and she resented the grin that flitted around the corners of his lips, “Tarisian eel soup is said to be a delicacy.”

She decorously placed her napkin to her lips to disguise a gag. “I am merely unaccustomed to the cuisine of this planet,” she answered, parrying his feigned innocence with a practiced, unaffected smile.

“That is understandable, milady,” Qui Gon injected diplomatically, shooting his apprentice a scolding glance, “perhaps I can manage to find an alternative meal for you. I will be right back.”

As the older _Jetii_ departed in the direction of the counter, Obi Wan took a long, conspicuous dreg from his steaming, writhing eel broth, before setting his bowl down on the table with a satisfied thud, obviously intended to aggravate her. Satine eyed him critically. How different he was now, from the gallant young man who had taken her hand and offered her his name the previous night! She vastly preferred that young man to this utter _besom_ before her now. Trying to suppress the perhaps disproportionate amount of vexation that he had elicited in her, she daintily placed her napkin in her lap and considered him with cool disdain.

“I suppose _you_ are accustomed to eating whatever is placed before you?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Obi Wan affirmed, gulping down another mouthful of broth as though to prove a point, “As Master Sinube tells younglings, ‘a picky Jedi is a hungry Jedi.’”

Satine did not care to inquire after the identity of Master Sinube. “I suppose it is in the _Jetii_ Order’s best interest,” she began, “to encourage an unrefined palate among its adherents.”

Obi Wan raised an eyebrow, beginning to sense that he was being goaded. “Why is that?”

“Surely the construction and maintenance of such an opulent temple leaves the _Jetii_ Order with insufficient funds to feed its dependents,” she answered mildly, “unless the Republic has seen fit to increase the tax burden upon its citizens.” Satine observed that her arrow had hit its mark: surprise quickly morphed to ire on the padawan’s comely face.

“Opulent?” He challenged, leaning towards her across the narrow table between them. She shifted forward as well, lest he think he believe he had any power to intimidate her. The notion was preposterous.

“I think you forget, Master _Jetii_ , that I received my education at the Republic Academy of Government, which is located in the Senate District, scarcely a few blocks from your _Jetii_ Temple,” she explained, “I have passed the impressive façade many times, and in fact, the venerable spires were visible from my dormitory window. Although I must admit that I admire the aesthetic of your Temple, I can hardly imagine that the citizens of the Republic are eager to invest so much of their hard-earned credits in a pretty sight.”

“Is that so?” Obi Wan asked, resting his chin in his hand, attempting to give off an unaffected air, “I might ask how the Mandalorian people feel about funding the satin gowns and bejeweled headdresses of their own _pretty sight_?”

Satine was outraged by this comment. How dare this ignorant lout presume to know anything about her people or their values? Of course, a foolish boy could not understand the symbolic significance of the _Mand’alor_ , nor the importance of appearance in curating her regal persona. Unconsciously, her thumb scrubbed against her knuckle, where he had placed a reverent kiss the previous night. Surely, the sheer impertinence of the insult he had paid her accounted for her racing pulse, not the ever-diminishing space between them.

“Perhaps _you_ cannot grasp the role of—” she began, but he suddenly broke her gaze, holding up a hand to silence her. His eyes roamed the small café wildly, and he took a deliberate, measured breath. “What?” she snapped, “What’s the matter? You ought to—”

“Quiet, please,” he barked, “There’s someone here…” After her vexation subdued that he would dare to speak to her so rudely, she realized with trepidation that he must be tapping into the Force. The thought made her skin crawl—there was an invisible, mystical energy flowing around her, imperceptible. Before she could consider this unnerving fact any further, Obi Wan stood.

“It’s time to go,” he said urgently, his voice low, “I sense there’s someone here looking for us.” Satine rose from her seat, and he swiftly caught her hand in his own, beginning to lead her away from their small table. They had not taken two steps before a hulking, rust-colored Devaronian pulled a chair up to their table and dropped himself indecorously into the seat.

“Where are you two off to so soon?” He asked, grinning to reveal rows of yellowed teeth, before jerking his horned head in the direction of their chairs, “Sit down.”

Satine was about to retort, but Obi Wan squeezed her hand tightly, wordlessly communicating to her to remain silent. It was then that she noticed the blaster pistol propped just above the table’s edge, fixed directly on her.

**_Mando’a_ ** **words:**

_besom_ \- ill-mannered lout, unhygienic person, someone with no manners

_Jetii_ -Jedi

_Jetiise_ -plural form of Jedi

_Mand’alor_ -“sole ruler,” leader of the Mandalorians, sometimes viewed as the physical embodiment of Mandalore itself (similar to the concept of “the king’s two bodies” in medieval political theology).

_Manda’yaim_ -the planet Mandalore


End file.
